They were gone in a flash: All those long summer days you’d vowed to fill with mom-and-daughter outings. But banish the guilt – there’s still time to make good on your intentions, as we found out.

LEARNING TO FLY

I never would have soared 30 feet above the Hudson River hanging from my knees, were it not for my daughter, Kate.

Having spotted the Trapeze School one day while we were mired in traffic, she insisted we try it. And so, one recent Sunday morning at the ungodly hour of 8:45, I found myself watching my 6-year-old – all 3 feet, 8 inches of her – climb to the top of a trapeze platform and wave.

“The trick is, don’t look down!” Kate shouted. Seconds later, I held my breath as Kate (tethered to safety cables) grabbed the trapeze on a handoff from our trusty instructor, Dave, and flew through the air. As the spotter shouted, “Knees up!” Kate pulled her legs through her arms and hooked her knees over the bar. Giggling, she soared upside down.

My first go wasn’t as impressive – getting those legs up and over the bar isn’t as easy at 43 as it is at 6. But once I did get going, what a rush. The drop down to the net came much too soon.

The Flying Wallendas we ain’t: Days later, my palms are still blistered, my back aches. But should Kate ever run off to join the circus, at least she’ll have this on her resume. – J.M.

There’s no better way to say goodbye to summer than at Central Park’s Victorian Gardens. Nearly hidden by trees, it’s a genteel take on the traditional carnival. My daughter, Charlotte, loves it for the preschooler-friendly rides; I like the well-kept grounds and breathtaking view. Best of all, the other day, the park was nearly empty – not a line in sight.

This meant that if Charlotte wanted to ride the Rio Grande Train four times in a row, she could – and she did. We also took multiple spins on the Mini Tea Cup and rode multicolored roadsters in enough circles to make Mom woozy.

At 3, Charlotte refuses to go on anything that leaves the ground, but we enjoyed watching the older kids twirl through the air on the other rides.

“I want to win something!” my daughter shouted, making a beeline for the carnival games. We played against each other for a plush Nemo by squirting water in a clown’s mouth, and – surprise! – Charlotte won.

Come to think of it, we both won: She didn’t notice those $2 SpongeBob Squarepants popsicles at the concession stand. – J.B.W.

Having once attended a birthday party at American Girl Place, our girls – my daughter, Kate, and my friend Amy O’Brien’s 12-year-old Charlotte and 7-year-old Phoebe – had begged for another go-round.

We agreed, on the condition that buying another $100 American Girl doll was out of the question. “Do you know how much money that is?” I asked. “You could buy 10 Barbies for that!”

(Note to the uninitiated: The AG concept revolves around a group of foot-high dolls – fictitious heroines of different historical periods who come with their own books, clothes, furniture and other wallet-whamming accessories.)

We’d wanted to do lunch at the store’s cafe, but it was booked solid, so we did tea instead. (At $20 a head, the price is steep, considering that lunch is the same price.)

But the girls were in excitement overdrive as soon as we were seated in the chic, pink- and black-striped dining room – and that was even before the diabetic-coma-inducing goodies arrived. With our dolls seated in booster chairs beside us, we scarfed down sticky cinnamon buns, bite-size (and dry) ham and cheese sandwiches, cookies, and hot chocolate Charlotte pronounced “the best ever!”

Then we headed for the store’s theater ($30 per ticket) for a song-and-dance review depicting the travails and triumphs of our heroines. The younger girls loved it; Amy and I – while impressed with an emotional vignette about Addy, who escapes slavery with her mom – found it a fine opportunity for a nap.

Bottom line: If you can set ground rules for spending and survive the sugar-shock of dining there, this is a great place for a mom-and-daughter day.

American Girl Place, 609 Fifth Ave., at 49th Street; (877) AG PLACE.

PUTTIN’ ON THE RITZ

Taking a 3-year-old to a spa sounds absurd – unless, maybe, you’re Madonna – but since my daughter, Charlotte, prefers shoe shopping to Toys ‘R’ Us, I figured she’d go for those mother-daughter manicures and pedicures at the Susan Ciminelli salon. I was right.

With its Buddha statues, crystals and scented candles (“It’s sparkly in here,” Charlotte noted), the salon looked surprisingly Zen for BG. We were immediately ushered to a private room, where Charlotte chose an iridescent gold polish for herself and a shimmering pink one for Mom. (Considering the options, I got off lucky.)]

Charlotte balked at dipping her toes into the foot bath, but was content to sit on my lap and play with her dolls while my tired tootsies enjoyed a salt rub.

The manicure was more her speed, particularly the marble-filled bowl of sudsy water for soaking her fingers (needless to say, the marbles didn’t stay put for long).

As for me, my calluses are gone, my cuticles have never looked better – and I didn’t have to pay a sitter. Charlotte’s verdict? “Let’s show Grandma our shiny toes!”

Exasperated with my idea of “fashion” – if it fits and is marginally clean, it’s fine – Kate now insists on shopping with me. This year, bound for first grade, she was adamant: “I want cool clothes.”

Off we went to H&M, which I figured would meet her requirements without draining my wallet.

In the kids department, I tried to keep up as Kate flitted between shelves and pulled hangers from racks. She’d run to the mirror, hold up an item and shout over the loud (I mean loud) music, “Mom! Mom! This one is sooo cool!”

In no time, she’d amassed a pile, fretting over whether she preferred the blue suede faux-shearling over the faux-rabbit fur coat ($34.90 each). I vetoed both.

We came home with a black corduroy miniskirt ($9.90), a tweedy, pink faux-Chanel skirt ($12.90), and half a dozen other pieces – including accessories and that blue shearling coat. (OK, I caved.)